


Little Song

by inspiration_assaulted



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, POV First Person, Poetry, Romance, Shakespearean Sonnets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:04:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inspiration_assaulted/pseuds/inspiration_assaulted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I stared at the small square of parchment in my hand. I had received it with the owl post at breakfast, though it was like no note I had ever received before. There was no address and no signature, only a few lines of poetry written in a steady hand.</p><p>…Love is not love<br/>Which alters when it alteration finds,<br/>Or bends with the remover to remove.<br/>O no, it is an ever fixéd mark<br/>That looks on tempests and is never shaken…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Song

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The term 'sonnet' comes from the Italian 'sonetto,' which means 'little song.' Hence the title.  
> The sonnet's I've used come from The Norton Shakespeare. Some spellings may be different in other versions, since Elizabethan English is definitely not know for its standardized spellings.  
> Anything not a sonnet is, of course, from Hamlet. These are cited (because I'm that kind of person and I went to all the trouble of looking them up anyway) like so: {Act.Scene.Line(s)} Again, these are taken from The Norton Shakespeare. Hamlet is one of the plays with several rather different versions out there.
> 
> Ta!

 

**Let me not to the marriage of true minds**   
**Admit impediments. Love is not love**   
**Which alters when it alteration finds,**   
**Or bends with the remover to remove.**   
**O no, it is an ever fixéd mark**   
**That looks on tempests and is never shaken;**   
**It is the star to every wand’ring barque,**   
**Whose worth’s unknown although his height be taken.**   
**Love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks**   
**Within his bending sickle’s compass come;**   
**Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,**   
**But bears it out even to the edge of doom.**   
**If this be error and upon me proved,**   
**I never writ, nor no man ever loved.**

Sonnet 116

*** *** ***

I stared at the small square of parchment in my hand. I had received it with the owl post at breakfast, though it was like no note I had ever received before. There was no address and no signature, only a few lines of poetry written in a steady hand.

_…Love is not love_   
_Which alters when it alteration finds,_   
_Or bends with the remover to remove._   
_O no, it is an ever fixéd mark_   
_That looks on tempests and is never shaken…_

It was clearly part of a larger piece, but I didn’t recognize it. Though I might have paid more attention to my mother’s literature lessons if I had known someone would one day send me love notes in poetic quotes.

Blaise raised an eyebrow at me from across the table. He and I always sat down at the end of the combined eighth year table, and people always gave us space. We weren’t the only Slytherins to return for an eighth year, but I was a notorious Death Eater and Blaise was best friend. No one else wanted to associate with us.

No, that’s not quite true, I thought as I looked down the table. Harry looked up at me with a grin. He was trying to be my friend, willing to put our mutually horrible past behind us, though Granger and the Weasel didn’t like that. Sure enough, Weasel saw us and went red in the face, whispering harshly at Harry.

“What’s that?” Blaise asked, pulling my attention back from Harry. I shrugged, handing him the note.

“A love note, I think,” I said. “Though why anyone would send one to me…”

“So down on yourself,” he murmured, reading the short lines. “Whoever wrote this clearly thinks you’re worth something. They wouldn’t change you for anything.”

“How can you know that?”

“I paid attention when my mother taught me about literature,” he quipped. I scowled. “It’s all in here if you really read it. Not to mention, they picked this part of this poem just for you. Shakespeare’s got a lot of sonnets, so they really did some serious searching for this one.” I raised an eyebrow and he blushed, lowering his voice. “I like poetry. Shut up. Look, I recognize Shakespeare when I see it, and his sonnets have layers of meanings. Take this bit about the ‘ever fixéd mark.’ I bet you they want you to know their love is as permanent as your…unfortunate tattoo.”

“Well, that narrows down our suspects,” I scoffed. “Everyone and their Squib uncle know about my ‘unfortunate tattoo.’ Any other ways I could find out who wrote it?” Blaise gave a rueful smile.

“Not really. Shakespeare was a halfblood and he’s famous in the Muggle world. A cultured pureblood would have studied him too, so that really only rules out the purebloods in Gryffindor and some of the Hufflepuffs, and not even all that certainly. I’d say your poet’s probably a halfblood or muggleborn, though.”

“My poet?” I sneered. Blaise shrugged.

“They need a name, don’t they?”

I snatched the note back and gathered my stuff for Transfiguration. If Blaise was going to be witty about it all, I wasn’t sticking around to be laughed at.

***

I could feel the note burning a hole in my pocket in Potions. Why would anyone write me a love note? I was filth in the eyes of the world, only kept out of prison with my father by the testimony of Harry Potter.

I was so shocked when he appeared at the trial, saying he would speak in my defense. No one had seen him since he killed Voldemort. He simply disappeared, then came out of the woodwork for our family trial. He was so confident and calm, and his testimony was so impassioned that some of the women on the Wizengamot were moved to tears. He defended me and my mother and would only say one thing about my father.

“Lucius Malfoy was a man in a terrible situation who made a number of mistakes. I will not speak for him, but neither will I speak against him.”

He smiled at me when they declared me and my mother innocent. Then he hugged my mother, gave me back my wand, and told me to call him Harry.

Then he vanished again, and no one saw him until the first day of school.

So yes, Harry thought I was worth something, even if I didn’t know what, but no one else did. The papers had raged for days when I was let off. My “poet,” as Blaise called them, must be deranged if they were sending me love notes. At least they had the sense not to sign it. Annoying to me, but it couldn’t be traced back.

Harry caught my eye, bringing me out of my thoughts as he motioned me over. I could see that his potion was dark and too thick, when it should be a smooth silver-grey.

“I’ve been really careful about my timing and the ingredients were perfect,” he said. “What am I still doing wrong?”

I looked over his potion and the instructions. Slughorn had realised the year before that I was something of a potions prodigy and said that making me repeat the year would be cruel torture. He made me something of an assistant or aide instead, saving him from having to remove his buttocks from his chair. Surprisingly, Harry had no problems asking me for help, since he did so about once a lesson. Merlin knows that boy needed all of it.

“Your fire’s too hot,” I said. “You’ve overcooked it a little. Turn down your flame and stir for a few minutes, and it should turn out fine.”

“Thanks,” he said, flashing me a lopsided smile that made my stomach equally lopsided.

Damn him.

How could any self-respecting gay, like myself, not admire the perfect specimen of manhood that was Harry Potter? I saw it for the first time at the trial, when he stood straight and tall in front of the full Wizengamot. I saw it when he showed up at the welcoming feast in clothes that fit and without his glasses. Now I saw it every bloody time he smiled at me.

I wondered if he wrote the note.

No, that was ridiculous. Just because he smiled at me…no. That didn’t mean he was gay. Nor did the fact that he wasn’t dating. He might not be with the Weaselette, but everyone knew that Harry Potter hadn’t shown the slightest interest in anyone since the war. Ridiculous thoughts, really.

***

I nearly opened the door to the shared eighth year boys’ dorm when the sound of raised voices stopped me. Shamelessly, I eavesdropped.

“I already told you!” That was Harry. Who was he yelling at?

“No, you haven’t! You said something vague about privacy and Black properties, but you haven’t told us anything!” Ah, Weasley. “We’ve been asking for nearly a month now, Harry. Why won’t you tell us where you went?”

“I’ve told you everything I’m going to say, Ron! Asking me again and again just annoys the hell out of me!”

This was an interesting situation. Apparently the rest of the Golden Trio didn’t know what happened when Harry vanished, either. Clearly, he wasn’t about to explain. I could hear stomping feet and quickly moved back into the shadows, just before Weasley threw open the door and stomped down the stairs.

*** *** ***

 

 

**As an unperfect actor on the stage**   
**Who with his fear is put besides his part,**   
**Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage**   
**Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart,**   
**So I, for fear of trust, forget to say**   
**The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,**   
**And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,**   
**O’er-charged with burden of mine own love’s might.**   
**O let my books be then the eloquence**   
**And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,**   
**Who plead for love, and look for recompense**   
**More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.**   
**O learn to read what silent love hath writ;**   
**To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.**

Sonnet 23

***

The nondescript grey owl swooped down, landing between me and my morning coffee, and stuck its leg out imperiously. I frowned and relieved it of its burden, but Blaise just smirked at me.

“Another one, eh?”

I hadn’t received any notes for the past two mornings. I was beginning to think it was just a sad rank done in poor taste, though Blaise disagreed with me. Apparently, he was right.

“Well, Draco? What says your poet this morning?” I scowled at him as I unfolded the note.

_As an unperfect actor on the stage_   
_Who with his fear is put beside his part,_   
_Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage_   
_Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart,_   
_So I…_   
_O learn to read what silent love hath writ;_   
_To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit._

“Oho,” Blaise said in a creepily accurate imitation of Slughorn, “your poet’s tongue-tied around you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped, pocketing the note. “I think I would notice someone who stuttered at me constantly.” Blaise only raised an eyebrow, calm and collected as always.

“It doesn’t have to mean that. It could mean they simply can’t find the words or the courage to say anything important to you, and they have to resort to pointless small talk instead.”

***

I was flung across my bed, trying valiantly to study for the upcoming Charms test, but that damn note kept intruding on my mind. Who would bother to go to such lengths, searching for the perfect bits of poems and using a school owl to stay anonymous, just to send the notes to me? They were obviously trying to woo me in some fashion, but were they insane? Didn’t they know who I was? Courting a Death Eater was a one-way portkey to social ostracism. Surely everyone knew that.

Did that make my poet brave and unconcerned? Or just enormously stupid?

“This doesn’t make any sense!” I growled.

“What doesn’t, Draco?” Harry’s voice drifted over from his own bed. I hadn’t realised he was hidden behind the curtains and blushed when he pulled open the hangings at the bottom of his bed. He had some small book in his hand, obviously not a textbook from its size, though he was clearly marking in it for some reason.

“Oh! It’s…nothing. Just…it’s nothing,” I stuttered out, embarrassed. Harry gave me an odd look.

“Alright then,” he said, leaning back and flipping open his little book. It was bound in black cloth and the spine had no title on it, which piqued my curiosity. Lounging on his bed, book in hand and a Muggle pen behind his ear, he looked like a bohemian artist. ‘A hot bohemian artist,’ I though, noticing the way his shirt was untucked and the sleeves rolled up, first few buttons undone.

“What are you reading, Harry?” I asked, trying to distract myself from drooling on him. Harry looked up and flushed.

“Um, just a Muggle story,” he answered evasively. “Look, I’ve got to meet Hermione soon, so, um…I’ll see you around, Draco.” He said, tossing book and pen into his trunk and locking it with a tap of his wand before dashing out of the room, cheeks pink.

Well, that wasn’t suspicious at all.

***

Blaise let the dusty book fall on the pillow by my head with a thump.

“What the hell?”

“It’s the only book of Shakespeare the library has,” he explained.

“It’s huge!” He just shrugged.

“One hundred and fifty-four sonnets in just the beginning of his works. There’s also three long poems and somewhere over thirty plays.” I gaped at him. “I think if you read them, just some of them, you’ll get out of this ridiculous idea you have that no one wants you. These are some of the greatest love poems out there, so clearly your poet knows what they’re about, writing to you. Self-hatred is unattractive, Draco.”

Then he turned on his heel and left.

Curiously, I flipped through the book to the sonnets, finding the one that had been sent the morning before. Reading through it, I realised my poet wasn’t cutting the poems up on a whim. He or she, but hopefully he, was picking out only the pieces they felt applied to me or the situation.

And I realised the poems were beautiful.

Well, maybe Blaise was good for something after all.

*** *** ***

**Weary with toil I haste me to my bed,**   
**The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;**   
**But then begins a journey in my head**   
**To work my mind when body’s work’s expired;**   
**For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,**   
**Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,**   
**And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,**   
**Looking on darkness which the blind do see:**   
**Save that my soul’s imaginary sight**   
**Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,**   
**Which like a jewel hung in ghastly night**   
**Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.**   
**Lo, thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,**   
**For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.**

Sonnet 27

***

No note came two days after the last, much to my surprise and Blaise’s disappointment. I will admit, his plan of making me read the original poems was working. I still wanted to know who my poet was and why they were send the notes to me, but I could believe that they were sincere.

Anyone can lie with simple words, but to lie with the emotion in those poems seemed impossible to me.

“Maybe they gave up,” I said, concealing my own frown as I looked at Blaise’s. He shook his head.

“They can’t have given up, they’ve only sent you two notes so far!”

“Well, what do you think, then?” I asked, a little shortly.

“I think you’ll still get one today, just somewhere else. During lunch, maybe, or dinner.”

“Right,” I snorted. “I’ll be sure to let you know if I do,” I said, getting up to head to the library. It was always gloriously empty there on Saturday mornings.

***

Of course, I had underestimated the lengths Granger would go to for her grades. She was there, along with Harry and the Weasel. I gave them an obligatory glare, which Weasley returned, before stalking off to a table in the back.

I had managed about five minutes of studying before a short, girlish giggle distracted me. Granger was the culprit, blushing bright red as Weasley whispered in her ear. Harry glared at them and they stopped.

For a few minutes.

Granger seemed to be possessed by the spirit of Lavender Brown. She and the Weasel kept throwing looks at each other, whispering and giggling and generally paying no attention to their books, Harry, or any of the other students around them. It was sickening, really.

“Mind if I sit with you?” My head snapped up again at Harry’s quiet voice. He was standing in front of my table, bag in one hand and looking somehow both pitiful and annoyed. Behind him, Granger let loose another high-pitched giggle, and we both gritted our teeth.

“Don’t bother,” I said, packing up my stuff. “I’m going for a walk.” There was the slightest pucker between his brows that spoke of hidden disappointment. Gryffindors would have missed it, but a Slytherin, used to hiding his emotions, could spot it easily.

“Come with me?” I offered, unsure as to why I was torturing myself. Then Harry smiled and I remembered, it was because I wanted this impossible boy in front of me.

We abandoned our bags in the gamekeeper’s hut, Harry promising that Hagrid wouldn’t mind and would watch over our stuff. The day was warm and clear for October, and the wind smelled of falling leaves. Halloween would be here soon. We strolled around the lake, hands in pockets, talking about classes and occasionally skipping stones. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, and every time he smiled I got a little jolt in my stomach. Eventually, we ended up on the pier. Harry lay on his back, shoeless and with his pants rolled up so he could dangle his feet in the water. I sat cross-legged beside him, leaning back on my hands.

“So what was up with Granger and Weasley today?” I asked. Harry groaned and scrubbed his hands down his face.

“They got engaged last night,” he said. “I knew it was coming, but I hadn’t quite expected it yet, you know? Ron asked for my ideas. I got back from the library yesterday to find all the girls squealing and talking about it, so I guess he managed to do something reasonably romantic.” I grimaced at the thought.

“I shudder to think of what Weasley thinks is romance,” I drawled, and Harry snorted.

“So do I, actually. He didn’t like my poetry idea, but I haven’t managed to get a word in edgewise to ask what he came up with.” Something tickled at the back of my mind at that, but I dismissed it.

“Can you imagine him trying to do some sort of impassioned speech about his love?” I laughed, and so did Harry. “He’d keep tripping over his tongue until he could get a word out, and then Granger would correct his grammar and he’d forget what he was trying to say!”

“Like an unperfect actor,” Harry said softly before chuckling again.

“What did you say?” I asked. His words struck a chord in my mind, but I didn’t know what it was.

“Hm? Oh, I said like a bad actor,” he answered, but that wasn’t right, I knew it.

***

I was still trying to figure out what it was that had struck me when I went to bed that night. I still hadn’t gotten a note all day, and Blaise’s frown was only growing deeper. I had just pulled aside the hangings around my bed when I saw it.

There was a little folded square of parchment on my pillow. I looked around the room, waiting for someone to pop out and say it was all a joke, or that they were the one sending me the notes, but it was all quiet. Weasley was gone, probably with his fiancée, and Longbottom, Macmillan, and Harry had all disappeared behind their bed curtains. I picked up the note and cautiously opened it.

_Weary with toil I haste me to my bed,_   
_The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;_   
_But then begins a journey in my head_   
_To work my mind when body’s work’s expired;_   
_For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,_   
_Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,_   
_And keep my drooping eyelids open wide…_   
_Lo, thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,_   
_For thee, and for myself, no quiet find._

I smiled despite myself, happy at the thought that my poet had not forgotten me. In fact, they remembered me so much it kept them awake at night.

‘I wonder if it could be Harry,’ I thought as I drifted into dreams of warm sunshine and tender words and brilliant green eyes.

***

“I got another one last night,” I said over breakfast, making Blaise sputter into his pumpkin juice.

“What! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it was on my pillow when I went to bed!” He gave me a look that clearly said ‘So?’ I tossed him the note. “Here, read it for yourself.”

Blaise’s eyes widened as he read. Then he smirked and nodded to himself.

“Makes more sense now,” he said. “This is better suited to a nighttime delivery. Your poet’s a real romantic.”

Romantic. That reminded me of my conversation with Harry the day before and making fun of the Weasel’s idea of romance. An unperfect actor, Harry had called him.

I let out a gasp as the words finally clicked in my head. I dashed out of the Great Hall and back to the dormitory, a confused Blaise on my heels. Up in our room, I dug out the last note I had gotten.

“There it is!” I exclaimed. “’As an unperfect actor’! Look!”

“I’m looking, I’m looking,” Blaise grumbled. “Why am I looking?”

“Harry said that yesterday when we were talking about Weasley. He called him ‘an unperfect actor.’ Harry’s my poet!” Blaise looked a bit skeptical.

“Potter? Are you sure it wasn’t an accident or something?”

“Of course I’m sure!” I scoffed. “It wasn’t an accident or a common phrase, and I didn’t mishear him. It’s not even grammatically correct, for Merlin’s sake! How else would he know it, if he wasn’t my poet?”

“Look, Draco,” Blaise said gently, like he was trying to temper bad news, “are you really sure? I mean, I know you really like Potter, but everyone knows he’s not interested in anyone anymore. Are you sure you’re not just, you know…projecting?”

“No!” I wanted to stuff my fingers in my ears like a small child throwing a tantrum. “It has to be Harry. You’ll see.”

Blaise just shook his head sadly and left the dorm.

I would show him. It had to be Harry, he was the only other person who bothered to talk to me. Blaise will see, I thought as I wrote a quick note.

_To my poet,_   
_Will you tell me more about yourself? As tender as the words you send are, I would like to have your own. Will you at least give me a name to call you?_   
_Draco Malfoy_

There, polite yet personal, the perfect beginning to a perfectly Slytherin plan. I would learn more about his poet, and, at the same time, I would make an effort to talk to Harry and learn more about him. They would be the same person, Blaise would see.

In the Owlery, I found the same little grey owl that had been delivering the unaddressed notes to me.

“Will you take this to the person who sends you to me?”

The owl blinked once, which I took as an affirmation, as it immediately took flight.

Doubt hit me as soon as the owl disappeared. What if Blaise was right? What if Harry wasn’t my poet but just a friendly boy with a handsome smile? What if I really had just misheard him down by the lake?

Had I just made a fool of myself?

*** *** ***

**Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage**   
**Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,**   
**To thee I send this written embassage**   
**To witness my duty, not to show my wit;**   
**Duty so great which wit so poor as mine**   
**May make seem bare in wanting words to show it,**   
**But that I hope some good conceit of thine**   
**In thy soul’s thought, all naked, will bestow it,**   
**Till whatsoever star that guides my moving**   
**Points on me graciously with fair aspect,**   
**And puts apparel on my tattered loving**   
**To show me worthy of thy sweet respect.**   
**Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;**   
**Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.**

Sonnet 26

***

I felt bad when I saw how cautiously Blaise sat down across from me at breakfast.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” I murmured. “It was out of line.”

“It’s alright, Draco,” he sighed. “I understand, you so badly want your poet to be Potter. I just want to make sure you aren’t heartbroken if it isn’t in the end.”

“I used the same owl to send them a note yesterday,” I told him, deciding to let Blaise in on my plan. “I asked to know more about them. I’ll talk to Harry more often, too, and see if they really sound like the same person.”

“You Slytherin, you,” Blaise smirked at me. “And even if Potter isn’t your poet, you might be able to snag him in the meantime!”

“Of course I will,” I said with mock-arrogance. “Draco Malfoy always gets the guy!”

Our helpless laughter caught Harry’s attention as he walked by.

“What’s gotten into you guys this morning?” he asked with a grin. Blaise smirked a little, eyeing him.

“Oh, you know. Just Draco being Draco,” he said casually. I blushed a bit, but Harry just shook his head. He cast a glance down the table to his usual spot, then sat beside Blaise instead.

“The newlyweds still all over each other, then?” I asked. Blaise grimaced.

“Unfortunately,” Harry replied, piling eggs on his plate. “I don’t think they’ve noticed me talking to them all weekend. I could use Hermione’s help on that monster Potion’s essay, too.” Blaise game me a very pointed look.

“I could help, if you wanted,” I said, giving Blaise the stinkeye. Harry didn’t noticed and just smiled gratefully.

“Would you? That would be fantastic! I’m absolute pants at Potions, it’s just beyond me.”

“Sure. I can meet you in the library after dinner?”

“Great.”

***

The note arrive at lunch, from the same owl. Blaise kept eating, but he eyed me intensely as I read.

_Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage_   
_Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,_   
_To thee I send this written embassage_   
_To witness my duty, not to show my wit;_   
_Duty so great which wit so poor as mine_   
_May make seem bare in wanting words to show it,_   
_But that I hope some good conceit of thine_   
_In thy soul’s thought, all naked, will bestow it…_

_What is it you want to know about me? I’m afraid I’m not very good at talking about myself. Maybe it’s a bloke thing? Either way, stolen words work better than any I come up with to tell you what I want to say._   
_This owl will bring your notes to me whenever you wish. Don’t worry about the address. He’s a smart bird. If you tell him it’s for your poet, he’ll understand._   
_I hope one day I might have courage enough to tell you everything in person, but for now, this will have to do._   
_Your poet_

“Well?” Blaise said impatiently, and I realised I had been staring at the note with somewhat of a soppy smile on my face.

“He replied.”

“I can see that,” Blaise snorted.

“No, he really replied. More than just a poem.” I handed it over to him. He devoured it eagerly.

“Well, at least he’s a bloke.” I snorted. “Hey, that’s the most important part! It’s got to start somewhere.”

“I suppose. Sometimes I wish Pansy was here. She was always so good at this sort of thing.” Pansy had reasonably decided that returning to Hogwarts would be dangerous for her, since she had tried to turn Harry over to the Dark Lord in the middle of the Great Hall.

“So do I. What are you going to write back?”

“I don’t know yet,” I murmured. “I’ll send a reply before lunch.”

***

_To my poet,_   
_I hope you find that bravery soon, as I am eager to meet you. However, I suppose I can do nothing until such a day comes. Perhaps I can guess your name from your answers to my questions._   
_What do you plan to do when summer comes? I confess, I am lost myself. I can think of nowhere that will hire someone with a Dark Mark, and my family name is in disgrace. In fact, I am sure it was only the selfless actions of Harry Potter that kept me and my mother out of Azkaban. I have a passion in potions, as I am sure you know, but no law-abiding apothecary or Healer would take me on, and I have no desire to return to the Dark Arts. Perhaps, if McGonagall is willing, I can find a place here as an apprentice or assistant to Madam Pomfrey or Professor Slughorn. With the reparations my family paid after the War, it would be impossible for me to support myself as an independent or experimental brewer._   
_Why have you chosen Shakespeare’s words? There are many thousands of other love poems out there, both magical and Muggle, if you must borrow someone else’s words. I would still prefer to read your own, if only to give me a measure of the man you are._   
_Nonetheless, the emotions you express are beautiful, and you are well on the way to making me fall in love with you, name or no._   
_Draco Malfoy_

***

“You look like a King, sitting there.”

Harry’s quiet voice jolted me from my reading. I had immersed myself into the plays. They were just a beautiful as the sonnets when the occasion called for it, but they were also funny, witty, solemn, and tragic at times. I enjoyed the tragedies the most, and was in the middle of _Hamlet_ , sitting in a chair before the fire with Granger’s ugly cat curled up asleep in my lap when Harry found me.

“Do I?” I asked with a smirk. He grinned back at me.

“Yes, very much the picture of regal relaxation.” He swept a deep bow, nearly touching his head to his knees. “What do you read, my lord?”

I jerked a little in surprise and recognition. I had just read that line a few pages back, where Polonius spoke to Hamlet. My mind reeled, wondering if this was another clue from my poet, or a slip of the tongue, or a coincidence with no connection at all. When Harry looked at me curiously, I realised I had been silent too long. Replacing my smirk, which had slid away while I wasn’t looking, I replied with more stolen lines.

“Words, words, words.” Something lit briefly in his eyes, something bright and happy and wary at the same time, but it hid too quickly.

“What is the matter, my lord?” {2.2.191-193}

My mouth fell open.

“You know it!” I cried, surprised and elated. Here was evidence even Blaise could not ignore. “You know exactly what I’m reading, and well too, if you can quote it like that. Harry Potter, a Shakespeare fan?”

Harry blushed a bit, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“Yeah, I’ve read some. _Hamlet_ ’s just my favourite. I had a lot of spare time over the summers, so I did a lot of reading, mostly anything my cousin didn’t want, since I wasn’t allowed to pick out anything of my own.” A faint hint of old bitterness crept into his voice, but he just shook his head and carried on. “My aunt had old copies of some of the plays, so I read them, but _Hamlet_ …There was something different about that one. Something more. I felt like him sometimes. My whole life had been dedicated to one task, killing Voldemort, just like he spent years dedicated to killing his uncle.”

Harry sat in the chair beside me, staring into the fire. This was a side of him I had never seen before. Usually, he was smiling and laughing, like he was trying to make up for all the years of happiness he’d missed, or else he was focused on his studies, alone in a corner and surrounded by books and notes. This Harry, though…he was haunted. He was broken by the War and his role in it and just trying to put himself back together.

“A Ghost, a prophesy, neither one of us ever had a choice. We just had our jobs thrown at us and were told to do them. ‘O curséd spite, that ever I was born to set it right!’” {1.5.190-191}

The words chilled me to the bone, spoken by someone who truly felt them. In that moment, I knew that was what Hamlet had sounded like, that was his expression, those were his dark and haunted eyes that stared into the fire.

Then he shook the thoughts away again and gave a hollow laugh.

“Well, that’s a downer!” His voice all but dripped with false cheer. “You should read _Much Ado About Nothing_ next. Much lighter, and I think you’d enjoy the banter, it’s all very witty.” The biggest smile in the world couldn’t get rid of the lingering tension around his eyes.

“Harry,” I said softly, but he ignored me and rose, stretching.

“I think I’m for bed. G’night, Draco.”

“Goodnight, Harry,” I murmured helplessly, watching him ascend the stairs.

*** *** ***

**No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:**   
**Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud.**   
**Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,**   
**And loathsome canker lives in the sweetest bud.**   
**All men make faults, and even I in this,**   
**Authorizing thy trespass with compare,**   
**Myself corrupting salving thy amiss,**   
**Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;**   
**For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense-**   
**Thy adverse party is thy advocate-**   
**And ‘gainst myself a lawful plea commence.**   
**Such civil war is in my love and hate**   
**That I an accessory needs must be**   
**To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.**

Sonnet 35

***

Blaise and I said nothing at breakfast, only scanning the ceiling occasionally for owls. I gave up the pretence of eating entirely when I saw the small grey one swooping down in large, lazy circles.

“I wonder what Potter has for you today,” he muttered. I cast him a curious look. “What? I believe you now, Draco. It has to be him, especially with what you told me about him last night.”

I, of course, had told Blaise all about my conversation with Harry about Hamlet and the way he quoted it blind.

I pulled the letter off the owl’s leg with shaking hands, making it squawk a bit when I was too rough, and opened it, nearly ripping it in the process.

_No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:_   
_Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud._   
_Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,_   
_And loathsome canker lives in the sweetest bud._   
_All men make faults…_

_I really hope you understand what I’ve saying with this one, but I’ll say it again, just in case. The Mark on your arm doesn’t define you as a person. If Healers and apothecaries won’t hire you, it’s because they can’t see your obvious talent and passion through their own prejudice and bigotry. Please, don’t give up on a dream just because some self-important idiots haven’t realised the War is over now and all the people who deserved it have been punished. I’ve seen you when you brew, and it’s beautiful. Your eyes are so focused and intense, but your hands are relaxed and elegant and you move like you’re conducting music only you can hear._

I blushed at my poet’s description of me. I never knew how I looked in Potions, or that anyone watched me so intently.

 _As for what I am doing after school, let me allow you to be the first to know (and Blaise Zabini the second, since I know you’ll let him read this after you) that I will be the new Defence professor and Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts. It isn’t the path everyone thought I would take, but those people never really knew me. I found my calling in helping my friends study and practise, and I believe teaching will be good for me. Perhaps, if everything works out the way I wish it will, we’ll live here at Hogwarts together next year.  
Hogwarts has always been my home. I cannot remember living in a happy household growing up, and I despised going back over the summers. More than once, I asked Dumbledore to let me stay over the summer, but he always refused. My family never liked me, and they never failed to let me know. ‘A little more than kin and less than kind.’ _ {1.2.65}

My eyes widened at another line from _Hamlet,_ and I knew this was the final proof.

_Oh, but that’s rather dark for a love letter, isn’t it? It is a love letter, after all, and I’ll say it plainly and in my own words, as you have asked; I love you, Draco Malfoy. You are beautiful and intelligent and fascinating, and you have a kindness and humanity that few people see. I wish I had seen it years ago, but the War was raging and the time wasn’t right. I will have to be happy with now. Draco, wonderful Draco, I wish I could call you mine.  
Your poet_

_PS- I’m writing this in the Owlery and the little owl is glaring at me, but I’ve only just found my courage again. Meet me out by the lake at sunset, on the end of the pier._

“You’ve gone all pink and wide-eyed, Draco,” Blaise smirked at me from across the table. “Should I be worried?”

“Shut up,” I hissed, embarrassed. “Just read it.”

I watched Blaise scan the note nervously, tearing my bacon into little pieces and feeding them to the owl. ‘I really should find a name for him,’ I thought to myself. I quite enjoyed the serious little fluff ball.

“Well?” I asked eventually when Blaise just stared at me.

“Can I have him?” he asked seriously.

“What? No!”

“Fine. Lucky bastard. I wish someone loved me as much as your bloke does you. I mean,” he let out a long, low whistle. “What’s this bit about his family, though? ‘A little more than kin and less than kind.’”

“It’s from Hamlet,” I explained. “Harry and I were talking about it just last night, too! Don’t you see? It’s him!”

“Yeah, no kidding.” He looked at me with a grin and an evil sparkle in his eye. “Maybe you will live here together next year. You could share a suite.” I coughed on the swig of pumpkin juice I had just taken. “Imagine it, Draco, after a long day of brewing potions and dealing with the little first-year snots, you could go back to your rooms and Potter would be there, just waiting to take you to bed and shag you into the mat-“

“Yes, right, I get it,” I cut across Blaise, cheeks flaming.

“You are going tonight, right?” he asked, serious again.

“Of course!”

“Good,” he fixed with a steady gaze, “because I will drag you out there myself if you even think about skipping out. This bloke is good for you, Draco. Even if he turns out not to be Potter. I haven’t seen you so happy in years.”

***

I paced impatiently in the empty classroom, waiting for the sun to set. I huffed impatiently, and Blaise looked up from his book.

“Problem, Draco?”

“Shut up,” I replied. “I can’t stand this.” I moved to leave, but Blaise caught my arm as I passed him.

“Not yet,” he said. “Don’t leave yet. Better to be late than early. Make him wait, make him impatient and worried. Besides, if I know Gryffindors, he’ll probably have something romantic set up. You don’t want to spoil the surprise, do you?”

“No,” I gritted out, giving him a look that clearly said ‘yes.’

“Good. Fifteen more minutes, I think. In the meantime, you can help me with Slughorn’s essay.”

I spent fifteen gruelling minutes explaining the reasons behind the reaction of hellebore with various metals, so distracted I probably got half of it wrong, before Blaise set his book aside and nodded.

It took all my self-control not to sprint for the pier. The sun was sitting fat and low on the horizon, painting the sky red with fire and the ground black with the long shadows of the castle’s towers. I spotted a familiar figure with messy hair at the edge of the pier, a basket by his feet, and my heart gave an odd leaping stutter.

I stopped just a few feet in front of Harry, transfixed by his wide, nervous green eyes.

“Harry?” I said softly, scarcely daring to believe it.

“Hello, Draco,” he answered in a voice no louder than mine. “I don’t really know who you were expecting here tonight, but it’s me you get. I was the one that sent you those poems, because,” he scratched the back of his head nervously, “because I like you, and I have for a while.

“No,” his laugh was shaky, “that doesn’t sound right, does it? Not quite strong enough.” His eyes met mine, shining and brave and scared all at once. “I love you.”

I could feel my heart stop, then jump a bit and race on twice as fast as before. My mouth went dry.

“Right,” Harry said in an even shakier voice, his eyes falling to the wooden planks between us, “w-well, that’s all I wanted to say, a-and…and…god, I’ve just been an idiot, haven’t I? Well then, I’ll just…I’ll just go, then.”

Too late, I realised I hadn’t said anything yet.

“Harry,”

“No, it’s alright,” he cut me off. “It’s fine. Wouldn’t be right if I didn’t make a fool out of myself in front of you, would it? Same as always.” He sighed, not meeting my eyes, and stepped around me. “I guess I just…anyway. G’night, Draco.”

Then he was gone, just a silent shadow marching stiffly up the slope to the castle.

Could I be any more pathetic?

*** *** ***

**When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,**   
**I all alone beweep my outcast state,**   
**And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,**   
**And look upon myself and curse my fate,**   
**Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,**   
**Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,**   
**Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,**   
**With what I most enjoy contented least:**   
**Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,**   
**Haply I think on thee, and then my state,**   
**Like to the lark at break of day arising**   
**From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;**   
**For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings**   
**That then I scorn to change my state with kings’.**

Sonnet 29

*** *** ***

It was long past sunset by the time I made it back to the eighth-year common room, Harry’s basket in tow. I don’t know what possessed me to bring the thing along, but it hadn’t felt right just to leave it out there by the lake.

The room was empty except for Blaise, who was waiting by the dying fire. He jumped up as soon as I entered, backing me against the wall with fire in his eyes.

“You idiot,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “You. Absolute. Moron. What did you do?”

I just stared at the basket in my hands, fighting back tears. Blaise sighed and shoved me onto the couch, taking the armchair across from me.

“Explain. Now.”

“I- he met me down there and said that he’d been sending me those poems and he told me he loves me and I just…froze,” I said very quickly. Blaise sighed again and rubbed the bridge of his nose with one hand.

“You didn’t say anything?”

“I didn’t know what to say!”

“Then kiss him, you clot!” he burst out, then groaned. “Merlin, you have to fix this, somehow.”

“I know that!” I shouted back. “I know,” I repeated, softer. “How?”

“That’s on you, I’ve no bloody clue. But he looked awful.”

“Oh, Merlin,” I whispered. Blaise nodded.

“He came back just after dark looking like the textbook definition of heartbreak. I thought he was going to go bed, but he just got a book and left with that Cloak of his under his arm. No one’s seen him since.”

I buried my face in my hands. I was so stupid!

“What’s in the basket?” he asked curiously.

“Don’t know,” I mumbled into my hands. “He just left it there.”

Blaise opened it, and his eyebrows rose as he sorted through the contents.

“Floating candles, a box of _your favourite_ chocolates, and,” he looked up at me, “a bottle of _very_ good wine and two glasses.”

I dropped my hands and stared.

“Really, can I have him?” Blaise asked with a smirk. “Now that you’ve broken his heart and all.” I growled and he dodged my swipe at his head, hands raised. “Ok, ok! Too soon?”

I threw myself against the back of the couch.

“Just help me figure out how to fix this!”

***

I couldn’t sit still at breakfast. I was so nervous and scared and desperate. Blaise looked over at me with a resigned smile.

We both watched Harry walk in. He kept his eyes away, not looking at me but not giving in to the shame of looking down, his face an expressionless mask. He must have had more pride than all of Slytherin House put together, to face the day like that.

A whooshing sound signalled the arrival of the morning owls, and Blaise and I traded looks. This was the moment. I watched as the small grey owl landed in front of Harry, who regarded it with a confused look but took the note anyway. I stood and walked toward him on silent feet, thanking all the higher powers that his friends were too wrapped up in their own affairs to notice me as he read the lines I had worried over so much that I knew them by heart. In my head, I recited the note word for word.

_When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,_   
_I all alone beweep my outcast state,_   
_And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,_   
_And look upon myself and curse my fate,…_   
_Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,_   
_Haply I think on thee, and then my state,_   
_Like to the lark at break of day arising_   
_From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;_   
_For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings_   
_That then I scorn to change my state with kings’._

_Turn around._

Reflected in the pitcher of pumpkin juice, I could see Harry’s eyes grow wide as they flicked back and forth across the lines. He spun around and stood to face me.

I kissed him.

“Draco?” he asked, breaking away. I shifted uncomfortably, aware that the Great Hall had gone completely silent and everyone was staring at us now.

“I was an idiot,” I said. “I wanted it to be you from the beginning, and then it was, and I just froze up. I can’t explain the way I reacted, but it was not the way I’d meant to.” My face felt hot and I knew I was blushing, but I cleared my throat and kept going. Merlin knows staying silent wasn’t any good.

“I’ll say now what I should have said then, what I’ve wanted to say for a while.” I took one of his hands in mine and placed the other on his cheek. “I love you, Harry Potter.”

*** *** ***

The memorial service was beautiful, but it tainted my enjoyment of a rare sunny day in a very wet spring. It was five years since the Battle that ended the War, four years since Harry and I had finally graduated and moved in together, sharing a suite during the school year and Grimmauld Place in the summers, and three since we had been married.

Harry’s speech was wonderful, as always, and the women always swooned at his strong voice and emotional words. Of course, witches always swooned around Harry, the twenty-two year old Saviour of the Wizarding World, whether they were old an married or the little firsties in his classes.

I made a point at the beginning of every year to linger before his first-year classes and kiss him goodbye when I left. Harry gave me resigned looks, but he indulged me every time.

Some of the older students sneered at us in the hallways, but we were old news. Everyone knew Professor Potter and Professor Malfoy, Head of Slytherin and the youngest Potion Master to date, were truly, deeply in love with each other.

Anyone who thought otherwise was set straight by the History of Magic teacher, Professor Granger-Weasley, who’d realised how self-absorbed she had been when Harry kissed me back in the Great Hall on that morning, five years ago (Auror Weasley, her husband, had taken slightly longer to come around, but he had been overjoyed to be Harry’s best man in the end.)

The service ended, and I looked at the empty seat beside me. My husband had not come back after his speech, wandering off instead with a faraway look in his eyes.

Though I knew where I could find him.

“Harry?” I called as I reached the pier, where he sat, head in his hands. He had his old, battered copy of the Sonnets in his lap.

“I’m alright,” he said as I sat beside him. “It just hits me again sometimes, you know? Every year we hold a service, and I make a speech, and we all relive that year over again.” He leaned his shoulder against mine. “I wish we could all move on and live our lives as they are now, but at the same time, I…”

“You don’t want to forget everything that happened,” I finished for him. He just nodded, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek to my shoulder. I looked at the book in his hands, held with his thumb marking a page.

“You never let go of this thing,” I remarked as I took it and opened to the page he held.

“I find something new every time I read them,” he explained. “And besides,” he added, nudging my shoulder, “they brought me you, didn’t they?” I hummed in agreement, looking over the poem he’d been reading.

“Why this one?” I asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

It was. I kissed him.

“I love you, too.”

*** *** ***

**When to the sessions of sweet silent thought**   
**I summon up remembrance of things past,**   
**I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,**   
**And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste.**   
**Then can I drown an eye unused to flow  
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,**   
**And weep afresh love’s long-since-cancelled woe,**   
**And moan th’expense of many a vanished sight.**   
**Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,**   
**And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er**   
**The sad account of fore-bemoanéd moan,**   
**Which I new pay as if not paid before.**   
**But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,**   
**All losses are restored, and sorrows end.**

Sonnet 30


End file.
